While I was teaching, I’d often try to write the same assignments I gave my students. (Except for research papers...I excused myself from that brand of torture!) Writing the assignments helped me to work the kinks out of them, so I could see what was enjoyable to write and what wasn’t. I didn’t always share my writing with my students, but I did usually manage to do it. In the same spirit, I decided this summer that I would write some of Haley’s assignments. Is that odd? I don’t know. It appeals to me because maybe it is a way of getting closer to her, to be thinking about the same things. Or maybe it’s just the eternal student in me, looking for someone to tell me what to do. At any rate, she wrote an interesting essay tonight for her history class, and I thought I’d do it, too. The topic was "how the past affects the present." She was to think about how her parents’ and her grandparents’ decisions have affected her life. We talked about a few ideas; I reminded her about things she’d forgotten over the summer, like topic sentences and conclusions and transitions, and she was off.

But it did leave me thinking. Maybe because my parents—the way they parented me, the choices they made, my place in the family—have been in my thoughts a lot lately, anyway. Specifically, I keep thinking about a conversation I had one day with my mom. This was the summer after I turned 18, when the consequences for all my rebellion had caught up with me and it was irrevocably too late to change anything. She asked me what she could have done differently so that maybe I would have turned out better—sidestepped my teenage angst altogether. I told her that there wasn’t anything she could have done, and in a way I still think that. Looking back, it seems like I was always headed for some disastrous event. As the always-shy child, lingering-on-the-fringes preteen, perennially almost figuring things out teenager I was, it seems inevitable that I would self-destruct somehow. Throw in some strange family dynamics and it was almost guaranteed. Of course, I always had a choice in what I did. But it is also true that you can only make decisions based on what you understand and know—on the information you’ve got, so to speak, and my world view was fairly skewed.

So if my mom were to ask me that same question right now (and trust me: I don’t think she ever would), I would answer it quite differently, simply because I have more information now. If she had wanted to change my course, I think on her part (again—allowing my own culpability, too) what she could have done was to really pay attention. It had to be obvious to her that I was making awful decisions, and yet the only thing she ever commented on was my clothing choices. I wish she could have looked at me honestly, with concern for me instead of concern for what the neighbors or the ward members might think; wish she could have seen that my actions weren’t the problem, really, but the symptoms.

It’s probably fairly obvious (to get back to Haley’s history class assignment) how my parents’ choices affected the future. There are many consequences from those days that continue to affect me, including how I feel about myself and how much (or how little) I deep-down believe in what I can accomplish with my life. On the other hand, I wouldn’t change many things about those difficult years, either. Is that strange? My rebellious phase taught me many things and helped me become who I am. Plus (dare I say this?) I had a lot of fun. It helps that I’ve grown to be OK with the fact that I’ll always be a little shy, and on the fringes of things. That is simply a part of who I am.

When Haley was nearly finished with her essay tonight, she asked me how to write her final paragraph. Wanting her to think for herself, I asked her to think about what she might have learned from the assignment. Your own insight is often a great conclusion. And I think I’ve come to my own bit of insight, thinking along these lines. Honestly, more than anything else, one of the biggest consequences of those years is how they strained my relationship with my mom. I still have plenty of Mommy Issues. I am terrified of making the same mistakes my mother did. No—I am determined not to. And yet, Haley and I are already starting to have our own issues. I really thought that if I tried hard enough, she and I could have a smooth relationship during her adolescence. After all, I am a cool mom, right? I try to do the things I remember wishing my mom would do when I was growing up. I try to be as fair as I can, and to remember how it felt to be her age, and I also try to just be myself. But maybe, when it comes right down to it, maybe all moms and daughters go through a rough patch. Maybe (probably) it is normal for her to act like I am the biggest idiot ever. Maybe all moms of teenage girls walk through their days wondering what happened. I keep wishing she could just like me again. But maybe this, too: maybe if I just do a better job of paying attention than my mom did, maybe if I can distinguish symptoms from disease, maybe if I can just somehow continue to let her know I love her—maybe then I won’t have to ask myself that devastating question my mom must have asked herself: what could I have done differently?

of things I want to remember Kaleb saying, just because:

"Look, Mom!" he said while we were driving. "They are waving at me!" "Who is?" I asked, watching the oncoming traffic so I could turn left into a parking lot. "The trees! Those trees are waving at me!" (The trees were swaying in the wind. For a second I could see them the way he did, a whole collection of hands waving hello.)

Tonight, pushing him in the swing. "You do an underdoggy, Momma?" he asked in between his swinging hum. "No, because only Haley can do an underdoggy on these swings," I told him. (I am too tall, and too afraid of getting kicked in the back, to do many underdogs anyway.) "OK, no underdoggy. How ‘bout an underkitty?"

We were sitting outside in the shade ("I just adore the shade!" is something he says regularly) under a sycamore, eating an ice cream sandwich. The wind picked up, and he lifted up his head. "What those trees sayin’?" he asked, that enchanted look on his face, the one that anyone under the age of five gets fairly often. I listened to our trees and with the wind they did seem to be saying something I could almost understand. "This one is saying "fall is coming, fall is coming," I told him. "What’s this one saying?" He decided that the flowering plum was saying "birdies come here," the other sycamore "boys come climb me," and the maple (our smallest tree, even though it is older than any other save the apple) "grow big and tall."

Then, tonight, three days at least since the original "what those trees sayin’?" conversation, he watched a bird fly right into the middle of the plum tree. "Look, Momma!" he said, that rapturous look on his face, "that birdie listened to the tree.

My three Bigs are veggie lovers. They don’t ever complain about vegetables, except lima beans, and in the spring when asparagus starts being reasonably priced? That first asparagus day is nearly better than Christmas.

But not so Kaleb. Every once in awhile he’ll deign to allow a pea or a piece of broccoli to pass his lips. Otherwise, he will not eat any vegetables. I’ve tried all the suggestions: serving with dip, serving them fresh, cooking them till they’re soft, cooking them crisp-tender. Doesn’t matter; if it’s a vegetable he won’t eat it. If it has touched a vegetable, he won’t eat it. You should have seen him the day that McDonald’s messed up his customary Happy Meal order, putting a cheeseburger with pickles into his little box before closing the handles. He shuddered. He made a perfect Bitter Beer Face. He gagged and quite nearly hurled. Now he won’t eat a cheeseburger until he has personally checked it for pickles.

He’s the same way with fruit. Seriously: the kid won’t eat fruit. Not apples or grapes or melon or berries or anything other than a very occasional slice of canned mandarin orange. Who doesn't eat fruit?

I don’t know how the kid ever poops.

In an effort to get some sort of veggie/fruit into Kaleb, I make pumpkin cookies. I put some applesauce in the pancakes. I put very-finely-grated (until they are nearly microscopic) carrot in my spaghetti sauce. I’ve tried feeding him my very-delicious apple cake, but he will have none of it, as the apple cubes are visible. It is seriously worrisome.

But tonight, I managed to get some zucchini down his throat. With zero complaining. It is August, after all, the time of an abundance of zucchini. Neighbors are constantly bringing them to me, and as everyone except Kaleb loves zucchini, we are in heaven. But every once in awhile, someone will bring me one of those gynormous zucchinis, the ones that are 3 feet long. Have you ever tried steamed Really Big zucchini? Not so delicious. Cake to the rescue! Not only does this recipe use up those monstrously-big zukes (I just remembered that my dad used to call them zukes. Or maybe he called cucumbers cukes?), it is a perfect vehicle for sneaking a tiny little of bit of fiberous goodness into any reluctant eater.

You just have to grate it really, really fine!

Chocolate Zucchini Cake

1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. oil
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 c. buttermilk
1 tsp vanilla
4 T cocoa
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
2 cups finely-grated zucchini
handful of brown sugar
handful of chocolate chips

Beat eggs until fluffy. Soften butter until it is nearly melted (if you get it too hot it will cook the eggs). With your mixer running, drizzle the butter into the eggs, then add the oil. Beat in the sugar. Combine flour, cocoa, cinnamon, baking soda & powder, and salt. Beat in about half the flour; add half the buttermilk; repeat. Add vanilla and zucchini. Pour into prepared*** pan. Sprinkle with brown sugar and chocolate chips. 350 for 40-45 minutes.

***About a year ago, I heard on some cooking show or other the idea to sprinkle sugar into your cake pan instead of flour. It crystalizes just a little bit so you have a little tender crunch to the outside of the cake, but it still comes out easily. Just without all that half-absorbed flour in the corners

Remember when I said I didn’t have Kaleb’s daycare set up yet? Yeah, well. As of this morning at 10:00 a.m., I still didn’t. I can’t explain at all exactly why this has been so difficult for me. My sister gave me the name of two women she knows who babysit, both of whom have three-year-olds to take to preschool this year. It seemed like the perfect set up: babysitting until it was time for preschool. Both women are people my sister knows well and obviously trusts enough to recommend. But I still couldn’t bring myself to call either one of them. It probably speaks to the fact that while I love my job, and I need it, too, I’m still not 100% certain I did the right thing by going back to work. Actually dealing with daycare makes it real: I’m not longer a full-time stay-at-home-mom. What’s more, It just seemed so strange, calling up a complete stranger with the idea of trusting her with my baby. (OK, he’s my 40+ pound, 44" tall, potty-trained baby who tonight told me "that sucks," with all the proper emphasis, when I presented him with pancakes for dinner tonight, but still. He’s still my baby, Love-You-Forever style.)I think that my difficulties came from the idea that deep down, I’m unsure that anyone who doesn’t know Kaleb well can love him enough to overlook his sometimes-complicated responses to the world.

So there it is, Sunday night before the kids go back to school, and I have zero daycare set up for Kaleb. Obviously Kendell isn’t ready yet to hang out with K for five hours, but I’d firmly limited myself—that was pretty much my only option. Well, that and praying for a miracle. And, you know—the prayer was answered. Because not an hour after I’d left for work, Jacob’s cubscout master called. She and I had discovered last week that we both had lonely three-year-olds without siblings at home once school started, and she thought it would be fun for Kaleb to come over to play with her son, Marshall. She came and got him and kept him until I came home. She kept him on Tuesday when I got my hair colored. And she kept him on Wednesday, again, while I was at work. All under the guise of Kaleb’s being there made it easier for her, because then Marshall wasn’t lonely.

Seriously—this was the miracle I prayed for. Kaleb was happy for three days straight playing with his new friend, and Kendell got three days of peaceful recuperation. When I got home on Monday, I went straight to the phone, ignored my anxiety, and dialed the first number my sister gave me. And then the second. And then had a little meltdown, because while one of the women was willing to take Kaleb, the preschool was full. And I was back to the drawing board.

This morning found me in full meltdown mode. Curled-in-a-ball-and-bawling meltdown for being so weird about it, for not just calling two months ago, for dropping my Mommy responsibilities. BIG drop. One of the reasons I went back to work is because I feel so strongly about the importance of two years of preschool, and yet here I was, calling preschool after preschool and finding them all full, or daycare centers just downright too expensive. And Kendell, who doesn’t usually handle my meltdowns very well, was awesome. He made some suggestions, sent me outside to push Kaleb in the swing, and made some phone calls. Once I was able to calm down, I thought of one other preschool to try—and they had openings! Even better, my neighbor’s daughter is also going there. Suddenly, it all fell into place. And then, later this afternoon, my sweet friend Jamie called to offer her help, too.

I needed this—needed to finally get my daycare situation worked out, needed to feel like I wasn’t alone in figuring out the solution. There have been many times over the past week when I have finally calmed my anxious self down enough to feel the Lord’s guiding hand. I needed to feel reaffirmed in my decision to go back to work. I needed this peaceful feeling of all being right in my world today—even though we had to make an unexpected trip to the hospital. (More on that tomorrow!)

I think maybe I have issues with blonde hair.

Not on other people, mind you. Just on me. I used to be very, very blonde. White-blonde, in fact. I don’t ever really even remember considering another color besides blonde. But when I left my rebellious period behind, I embraced my outer brunette. Well, blondish-brownish-ashish might be a better term. Is there a name for that hair color? Every time I had another baby, my hair got darker. I really liked it. And then the greys started making their appearance. But I’ve never wanted to go back to my blonde days. For a while, when I was in college, I colored my hair myself. That went well until the day I got the color/processing-stuff ratio wrong and ended up with purple hair—on the day I had a big class presentation. Pony tail, anyone? I was just simple brown for a long time after that, even though I’d finally found a stylist I loved. Before she had kids, she’d even cut my hair at my house!

But one day she talked me into a color. And somehow I ended up with blonde streaks. And I was not happy at all. Next time, same thing: too much blonde. Someone told me that if you want a great brown hair job, you have to find a stylist with brown hair. I got desperate and tried my friend’s sister’s sister-in-law’s brunette aunt (or something), who gave me the best color I’ve ever had (rich, reddish-brown).

Until yesterda. Yesterday I went to another friend’s salon to be a hair model. Probably the only sort of model I will ever be: they just needed heads of healthy hair to try out a new color technique. Free hair color? Twist my arm! There were three other models, all of them friends and neighbors. The stylists gathered us together to explain our choices, subtle or more bold, and I volunteered for a bold hair color. But then I blurted out "as long as I don’t have to be blonde!"

Then I looked around the room.

And I realized that approximately 89% of the women in the room were blondes.

And I tried to back pedal. I tossed out a Seinfeld-esque "not that there’s anything wrong with blonde." Then managed to just shut up and blush.

I don’t know how to explain my blonde issues. I look at blondes and think their hair is gorgeous. I spend quite a bit of time admiring Haley’s golden tresses, which always look like they’ve been professionally highlighted even though she’s only seen a color bottle once. But I just have zero desire for my hair to be blonde. Maybe it has to do with not wanting to become my mother, who has had the same shade of whitish-blonde since I can remember. Maybe it’s because my blonde hair was a key feature of my rebellious days, and I want to keep those versions separate. Maybe it’s just my inherently contrary nature: if everyone else wants blonde, I want something else. But really, I think it mostly has to do with wanting to stay true to my inner self, who just isn’t blonde. Of course, that’s overlooking the fact that I’m trying to stay true with hair color—talk about self contradictory!

Still, I really wish I would have managed to be quiet about my blonde issues this morning. Because those very-blonde hair stylists gave me a great color. They covered my random greys and managed to find a reddish-brown I just love. (I think it was called Irish Red.) The other hair models? They all got blonde shades. And I really, really hope I didn’t sound rude with my dumb blonde comment. They all looked gorgeous!

When Haley saw me this afternoon, she said "Mom, I love your hair. I’m glad you kept it brown. You’d look weird with blonde." And then she offered up the highest compliment any 13-year-old can: "it looks like teenager hair!" Yeah. In my book, that’s better than being blonde anyway.

Yesterday, my kids went back to school. Usually, I get a little bit thoughtful or choked up on back-to-school day, but this year I just didn’t have time. Aside from getting the three Bigs ready, I also needed to help Kendell with a few things, plus his home healthcare nurse was supposed to come at 8:00, necessitating a flurry of cleaning. Not to mention I’d not managed to get in to pay for school lunch, so I had to get that done. Oh, and I had to work that morning, too. (I tried to fit a run into all of that and it just wouldn’t work.) So we were simply a getting-ready-for-the-day machine at my house, with no time for being pensive over another year beginning.

But still, once things calmed down, I had to chuckle a little bit at how different each of my kids are, and how each of their approaches to the first day of school reveal so much of their personalities. Haley, of course, has been planning for this day for months. We’ve been shopping for clothes and jewelry and shoes (if you, too, are desperately searching out high-top Converse, they have them at Dillard’s for a great price!); she’s arranged and rearranged her outfit options a bazillion times, and once she had it all organized, then she sketched everything so she wouldn’t forget. (Haley loves drawing.) Then we discussed hair options. I taught her how to apply eyeliner. And she was so keyed up the night before, I don’t think she slept until past midnight.

Nathan had troubles sleeping, too. He’d kept waking up every two hours or so, then coming into my room to ask if it was time to get up or not. He had his first-day outfit ready to go, too. For a boy, Nathan is very concerned about what he wears. He likes to look nice and won’t wear anything he doesn’t think is stylish. He totally digs wearing a belt with his jeans. Plus, it’s all about the socks; he likes new, still-cushy, ankle socks. He puts a clean pair on the night before, to make things easier in the morning. Back-to-school eve was especially good because he got to sleep in new socks! He had his shirt and shorts (and belt!) folded neatly next to his bed.

Then there’s Jake. When I asked him what he would be wearing for his first day of school, he was like, "whatever." As long as the jeans are comfy and his socks don’t have "ruffles" (those ridges you sometimes get when your socks bunch up), he’s happy. Plus, he had new running shoes, so the first day of fifth grade for Jake? Went swimmingly. At least, clothes-wise. Mr. Laid-Back was also my kid who officially Did Not Want To Go To School. Hopefully his teacher—his first male teacher ever—will win him over quickly!

(Both boys wanted their picture taken in a tree. OK! Works for me!)

Which leaves, of course, poor Kaleb. I am not sure why, but I have just simply NOT been able to deal with finding him a daycare/preschool set up. I’ve had phone numbers to call. I’ve even picked up the phone. But each time, I have set it back down, unable to call. So, not only did he not get to go to school with the big kids, he’s sort of in limbo right now. (If anyone knows of a fabulous babysitter in Orem, let me know!)

I’m certain my Great Motherhood badge will arrive in the mail any time now.

For the past few days, I’ve had a nagging little stomach ache—that feeling of nerves in your belly, but I couldn’t quite figure out what I was anxious about. You’d think it might be Kendell being home, but honestly that is going as well as can be expected. I have managed to cling to my patience, to not respond with anger or annoyance, and to help him as much as possible. I don’t have to do anything that remotely resembles dealing with a bed pan, so I’m good. (There is a reason I am not a nurse. And—it’s that one!) Although, I do have to say that having a recuperating-from-surgery husband is a lot like having a newborn baby. Albeit without those sweet newborn moments, but also sans sore boobs. For example: I can’t ever leave him home alone, there are all these extra medical things to remember, and the sleep-through-the-night thing? Umm, apparently in Kendell’s world that’s just not an option. Thirsty = drinking water = 89 trips to the bathroom per night. I didn’t notice this before, when I didn’t have to help him to the bathroom.

Nope...while taking care of Kendell is making me tired, it’s not making me anxious. I realized tonight, while talking to one of the part-time librarians, exactly what it is. In addition to being a part-time librarian, he is a full-time English teacher. School starts on Monday, which means this week is the one when teachers go back to school. Ah ha! That part of my psyche which is still in teacher mode must be picking up all the misery-vibrations pulsing through the county right now. In fact, I am 100% certain that if I could sleep for longer than 45-minute stretches, I would be having teaching dreams. As we talked, I started in on my why-I-left-teaching schpiel. And then I realized: OK, this guy is a new teacher. He’s excited. He’s optimistic and idealistic and full of energy. Who am I to spoil his new-teacher buzz?

So tonight, as I was walking out to my car, I made myself think of things I loved about teaching. Because really: anguish aside, I loved the actual teaching part. Here it is, the six reasons why I loved being Mrs. Sorensen, English Teacher:

6. Teaching itself. This is last-but-not-least. Although I was exhausted and stressed and children-starved, I loved the act of teaching. I loved sharing my knowledge with others. In fact, that teacherly part of me is still planning lessons; I still keep essays I come across, or good poems, ridiculous grammar errors or ingenious ideas for teaching some concept or other—just in case. Because anxious stomachaches aside, I guess I never know for certain that I won’t go back.

Because I know you are all sitting around wondering "what's up with Amy?"

1. Four Words I Love to Hear: have you lost weight? Why, yes I have! Only a little bit, but it is a start. Apparently all those months I spent struggling with exercising and eating healthy but not losing any weight? Hampered by a sluggish thyroid and unhappy adrenal glands. Once I started on my meds, it has finally started coming off.

2. Five Words I am Puzzled By: you're looking very librarianish today. My sister-in-law told me that last week when I dropped Kaleb off at her house so I could go to work. OK...I did have my hair pulled back in a bun-ish sort of pony tail. And, I did have my glasses on. But still, I'm puzzled...is that a compliment? Or a sort of back-handed jab? Or maybe just a casual observation? I'm left wondering if I also looked spinsterish. Or oldish, wrinkledish, or used-up-ish.

3. It's Not Here Yet, But it is Starting to Make its Way. Yesterday morning when I went for my run, there was a distinctly fall-is-coming feel to the air. It was cooler, and breezy, and the sunlight had a slightly different tone. Of course, we'll still have plenty of scorching-hot days. It's still summer. But I am content in knowing that my favorite season is right around the corner.

4. Alicia Sacramone. Oh, holy cow do I feel for this girl. (If you don't know who I'm talking about, she's the American gymnast who fell on beam and on floor last night, during the team championship.) The furious body language she was screaming during her beam routine (after her fall), the look on her face, that stoic attempt to keep the tears back: this brought back some fierce memories for me. Messing up for your own medal is one thing, but losing it for the team is entirely Other. I'm glad for her sake that even if they'd not had to count her falls, they still would have taken the silver. Still, she must have felt horrid.

5. Speaking of Olympic Gymnastics. I’m with Bela Karoli on this one: there’s no way all of those Chinese gymnasts are anywhere close to 16. And, like he said (in case you couldn’t translate his thick Romanian accent), the point isn’t to cast any doubt upon their performance (which was maddingly excellent) but that the Chinese government is cheating simply by dint of breaking the rules. What really annoys me the most out of the whole controversy is the original idea, "the younger the better." I personally prefer watching the older girls perform (OK, there’s no way to write that without sounding weird) because their maturity gives the sport a sense of depth. Of course, I was once Officially Too Old to be a Good Gymnast. Maybe I’m still bitter.

6. The Recuperation. Kendell’s, that is. It’s coming along fairly nicely. Slow progress, but that’s what we expected. He mostly just lies around in bed, with occasional walks around the neighborhood, showing off his groovy white compression socks. My patience has managed to remain intact.

I didn’t go to girls camp when I was a teenager. (Girls camp is something we do in the LDS church each summer with our 12-17 year-old girls as an activity to build faith, connections, and skills, as well as just for fun!) Of course, I didn’t go to church much, either, but whatever occasional fellowship efforts were made in my direction definitely did not include an invitation to rough it in the woods with the other girls for five days. It’s hard to camp in steel-toed lace-up boots and a black suede jacket, anyway.

But since I’ve been working in the Young Women organization, I’ve hoped I could go to camp. I was absolutely certain I would go, in fact, until Kendell’s surgery came up. Then, I just had to think "I’ll wait to see how it goes." But all along hoping (and yes, even praying) that I would get to go. In a miraculous lining-up-of-the-stars kind of event, everything turned out so I could go for a couple of days. Kendell’s ilieus and the troubles he’s been having with his IT bands meant he was in the rehab unit until Saturday; my mom and my mother-in-law agreed to help with the boys; I was able to find someone to take my Friday shift at the library. Thursday and Friday at girls camp were mine!

I went mostly because I wanted to have some good mother/daughter bonding time with Haley. That didn’t really happen, though. I think she had mixed feelings about me being there. She’s always been independent, not one go get homesick or to miss me. So she didn’t really need me there, and I think it felt a little bit like my arrival took away some of her independent time. I tried to be patient with her annoyance, to remember what it felt like to be 13 and annoyed by your mother; I tried very hard, in fact, to not mother her at all, but to let her do her own thing. Occasionally her "own thing" meant hanging out with me, but usually she was with her friends. So honestly, my going to girls camp ended up being more about me than it was about her and me.

I came away with several precious things from girls camp. (I'm fairly certain this won't be my last blog entry about camp.) One was friendships. The women I was already friends with feel like closer friends now, and women who I just knew from church before feel like real friends now. Another thing was a closer connection with the young women. I often feel very inadequate in my calling with the young women because I am so lacking in that ability to immediately connect with people. I am sort of a closed-up-tight kind of person, until I know someone, but that quality also makes it much harder to get to know someone. I felt like, at camp, I was able to open up a little bit and connect to these girls, to laugh and talk and joke with them. And finally, girls camp gave me a little inner peace that I have desperately needed.

Because here’s the thing: I have been so anxious about Kendell coming home from the hospital. Whenever he is sick, all of my resentments start to surface. The old resentments about how he takes care of me (or doesn’t, really) when I am sick. Those resentments make me grumpy and annoyed while I am taking care of him, so I do it out of a sense of obligation instead of love. And I didn’t want to approach his homecoming with that attitude. I don’t want to lose my temper, or argue with him, or have that bitter litany—why should I, when you don’t?—repeating itself in my head. I want to just be able to help him, not because of something he has done for me but because he is a person who needs help. But I have not been at all sure that I could do it like that.

Somewhere, though, at camp, I felt my anxieties settle. It could just be that I love being outside in the mountains. They are sacred places to me. Sacred and magical. The way things happen without people’s interference is part of their draw for me—trees that came from nuts or pods or bolls, not a pot from the nursery; wildflowers that sprung up without potting soil or fertilizer. Despite the rain, the mud, and the constantly-cold hands, I am perfectly content in the mountains. But it could have been other things, too. Maybe it was hiking through the damp piney woods, filling my lungs with fresh air. Maybe it was sitting in the cabin with the other women, talking and crying over our heartaches. It could have been the few moments I sat all by myself on a mountain slope, in a sort of room made of two fallen stones that happened to land at a 45-degree angle from each other, writing in my journal and listening to the wind in the trees. Or even, just before I left late Friday night, standing by the pond and admiring the casually-imperfect fleur-de-lis made by the silhouette of the trees on top of the mountain. I’m not sure of the exact moment, and maybe it was the total of everything. But even though I am exhausted, I am peaceful. My anxiety over taking care of Kendell has melted away, replaced with a surety that I can take care of him well and for the right reasons. It’s not what I expected from girls camp. But I am grateful indeed to have it.

One of my neighbors has four boys. Between them, they’ve have a total of: zero stitches and zero broken bones. That’s amazing to me, since with my kids, getting stitches is almost as common as getting the stomach flu. The first time we went in for stitches—when Haley was 3, and stood up too fast in the tub, only to slip, fall down, and cut her chin open, all before I could grab her—was sort of traumatic; there really wasn’t much blood, and the cut was small, tucked up underneath the bottom of her chin where we couldn’t really see it. The worst thing was that she wasn’t really a big fan of holding still during the procedure, and Kendell and I had to nearly crawl on top of her to get her not to squirm. The second time we visited the doctor for stitches was much more horrible. I was at my mom’s, and Jake (who was nearly three) fell off her couch and knocked over a big porcelain vase. Knocked it over with his face. He had a huge slash slanting across both his top and bottom lip. Plus, Kendell was in Boston. And we had no medical insurance. That one freaked me out.

Now, though, I’m an expert at stitches. There’s no more "should we go in?" hesitation, because I know exactly what a cut that needs to be stitched looks like. So when my neighbor (the one with the four unblemished boys) called on Saturday afternoon to tell me that Jake had cut his foot open and might need a stitch or two, I thought—OK, no biggie, I’ll be over in a second. I arrived to a scene of bloody mayhem. His cut wasn’t very big, but it was spurting. Apparently, they’d been sharpening sticks with pocket knives (and I shouldn’t even get started about why the Cub Scout organization deems it appropriate to sell pocket knives to 8-11-year-old boys at scout camp; I can’t be the only mom with kids who have a close relationship with the ER staff), as non-sharp sticks are simply not fun, and his knife had slipped, slicing right down the top of his foot, nicking an artery or vein along the way.

We got the bleeding stopped and went home to call the doctor. (My pediatrician’s office always has an on-call office to visit on the weekends.) I was a little bit annoyed with this doctor’s office, as in all previous stitches experiences, we’ve been ushered right in, but this one wanted me to make an appointment. I sort of shrieked a little bit at the receptionist when she told me that. "You want us to sit here for two hours while he spurts blood?" but even my best Suellen impression didn’t work. So, we got him cleaned up (reopening the spurter and freaking him out in the process), waited our two hours, and went in for stitches.

After waiting the requisite two hours to finally see the doctor (I hate how moving into different rooms makes you feel like you’re making progress, when really, you’re not), we got him all stitched up. Four stitches later, he’s up to a Sorensen-kid lifetime record of 35 stitches. Having done it so many times, Jake’s more blase about the stitches thing than I am. He was actually annoyed that they gave him the numbing gel instead of shots. We’ve moved past the emotional trauma.

But here’s the deal. Later that night, as I was taking off my watch to get ready for bed, I realized that Jake’s pocket knife is in my jewelry box. Where it’s been ever since I freaked out (about two days after he got it) about all the cutting possibilities. Yeah—it wasn’t even his own pocket knife that cut him. Seems like whatever I do, they’re bound to get hurt somehow.

At least we have insurance now.